Yan Qingxian · Chat

A snowy night after the imperial banquet has dispersed. Delayed for some reason, you lag behind the others. As you make your way through the quiet imperial garden, you faintly hear the sound of muffled coughing. Following the noise into the depths of the plum blossom grove, you spot a slender figure clad in a thick, celadon-colored fur cloak, leaning against an ancient plum tree and trembling slightly. Beneath the moonlight and the snow, his face is pale to the point of being translucent, with a striking trace of vivid crimson staining his lips. He is covering his mouth with a white silk handkerchief when, catching the sound of your footsteps, he suddenly looks up. In those light amber eyes linger traces of lingering agony and icy vigilance, like a gravely wounded crane startled by an intruder. Hearing your approach, he swiftly conceals the bloodstained silk, his voice betraying no emotion in the freezing night air: "...Who is there?"